OH, MY JEAN!
WHEN JACK STEWART left Indiana, and left owing the two hundred dollars which was secured by a chattel mortgage on his horses, he failed to do something he now had cause to regret. The man to whom he owed this money agreed to give him one year in which to pay it, but didn't renew the mortgage. He was a close friend of Jack's, and there had been no worry. But the man died; his affairs fell into the hands of an administrator, whose duties were to clean up, to realize on all due and past due matter. And because the note of Jack Stewart's was due and past due, the extension being simply a verbal one, the administrator wrote Jack demanding that he take up his note at once.
We know the circumstances of Jack Stewart; that because Jean Baptiste had hired his son Bill, and now was boarding with them, he was able to get along; but Jack Stewart had nothing with which to pay $200 notes.... So while Jean Baptiste was recovering from his illness, Jack Stewart had cause to be very much worried.
Possessed, however, with a confidence, Jack took the matter up with the banker in the town where he received his mail. Now a common saying in a new country is: "I'm going to borrow five dollars and start a bank...." Inferring that while there is, as a whole, an abundance of banks in a new country, they do not always have the wherewithal to loan. What they have is usually retained for the accommodation of their regular patrons, and they were unable to accommodate Jack, even had they wished to do so.
Now, he could have secured the money had he been a claimholder or a land owner. But Jack, being neither, found himself in a bad plight. He had Aggie write a long letter in which he tried to explain matters, and requested until fall to pay, as had been verbally agreed upon. But the class of people in the old East who regard the new West as a land of impossibilities, where drought burns all planted crops to crisp, where grasshoppers eat what is left, who still regard those who would stake their fortunes and chances in the West as fools, were not all dead.
The administrator happened to be one of this kind. He had no confidence in the country Jack wrote about, the crops he had planted; what he expected to reap, and no patience withal into the bargain. So he wrote Jack a brief letter, and also one to the bank in the town, sending the papers with it at the same time, with instructions to foreclose at a given time. And when Jack knew more of it, he was confronted with paying the note in thirty days or having his horse taken, and sold at auction.
Jean Baptiste recovered, went back to his work, and noticed that Jack Stewart and Agnes were much worried; but, of course, didn't understand the cause of it.
"Have you tried elsewhere, father?" said Agnes when they had gotten the notice giving them thirty days' grace.
"But I am not known, dear. There is not much money in a new country, and it is very difficult to get credit where there is nothing to lend."
"There must be some way to avoid this. Oh, that man, why couldn't he be reasonable!"
"It is always bad when one has to write. If I wereback in Indiana I could go and see this man and reason it out, but when a thousand miles is between us—it's bad!"
"If we could have only just three months."
"Two months," he exclaimed.
The days that followed were days of grave anxiety, of nervous anticipation for them. There was but one person they could turn to at such a time, and that was Jean Baptiste. Agnes thought of him, she started to speak with her father regarding him, but in the end did not bring herself to do so.
So the time went on, and the thirty days became twenty; and the twenty fell to ten; and the ten fell to five, and then Jean Baptiste could bear their worry no longer without speaking.
"You and your father have been very kind to me, Agnes, and I can see you are greatly worried about something. If I could help you in any way, I would be glad to do so."
She was so near to crying when she heard this that she had much difficulty keeping back the tears. But she managed to say:
"Why, it's nothing serious. Just a little matter, that's all," and she went into her room. He pondered. It was more than that. Of this he was sure. He left the house and came around to where Jack sat, and was moved by his expression. But Jack would say nothing. He could not understand. He tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, and so came Sunday, the day of days.
He was walking from his meal to his place to look over his crops, when from up the road he caught the sound of buggy-wheels. Two men, driving a single horse hitched to a light buggy were coming his way. When they caught sight of him, they hurried the animal forward slightly bytouching him up with the whip, and beckoned to him to stop. Presently they drew up to where he stood and he recognized one as a homesteader, and having a claim near and the other as a professional dealer in horses. They exchanged greetings and some remarks about the weather and crops, and then the trader said:
"By the way, Jean, where does that old Scotchman live out this way? The old fellow who moved out here recently from Indiana?"
"That's the place there," and Baptiste pointed to the top of the house that could just be seen from where they stood.
"I see," said the other thoughtfully. "Wonder where that dappled gray mare he owns is grazing. I'd like to take a look at 'er."
"I think you will see her grazing in the pasture," said Baptiste curiously.
"How—what kind of animal is it?"
"Why, she's a hum-dinger," returned Baptiste more curiously. His curiosity aroused the other, who, looking at him said:
"Well, you see the old man is to be sold out—foreclosed, and I thought I'd take a look at his stuff and if I thought there was anything in it, I might save the old scout the humiliation by buying it."
"T' hell you say!" exclaimed Baptiste.
"Oh, yes. Hadn't you heard about it?"
"This is my first knowledge of it."
"Yes, the sheriff's coming to get the stuff Tuesday—that is, providing the old man don't come across with a couple of hundred before that time, and it is not likely he can, I don't think."
"Well, well!" Baptiste exclaimed, thinking of the worryhe had observed in the faces of Agnes and her father, and at last beginning to understand.'
"Yes, it's rather bad, that. But this follows the old gent from where he comes, and he is not known here, so I guess I'll mosey along and take a look at the stuff—just a glance at it from the road, you understand. And if things look good, I'll drop by 'n see him later." Whereupon they went their way cheerfully, while Baptiste resumed his, thoughtfully.
He returned to his house by a roundabout way, and, later, hitching a team to a light buggy, he drove into the town where Jack traded and looked up the banker.
"Say, Brookings," he opened, "what kind of deal is the old Scotchman up against out there? You understand."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the cashier. "The old man out there on the Watson homestead! Well, it seems like the old fellow stands a good chance of being sold out." He then explained to Baptiste regarding the note and the circumstances.
"That don't look just right to me," muttered Baptiste when he had heard the circumstances.
"Well, now, itisn'tright. But what can be done?"
"Can't you loan the old man the money?"
"I could; but I don't like letting credit to strangers and renters. If he could get a good man on his note I'd fix it out for him, since we've just received quite a sum for deposit."
"Well, if I should go it," said Baptiste suggestively. The other looked quickly up.
"Why, you! Gee, I'd take care of him for ten times the amount if you'd put your 'John Henry' on the note."
"Well, I'll be in town early in the morning," said Baptiste, turning to drive away.
"All right, Jean. Sure! I'll look for you."
The day was bright and lovely for driving, and Baptiste drove to his homestead, and from there to the Reynolds' where he had dinner and visited late. The next morning he went to the town, and when Jack Stewart, exhausted by the strain of worry under which he was laboring, came into town, having decided to try and sell the mare and one of the other horses, thereby leaving him only one with which to complete the cultivating of his corn and the reaping of his crops, he was called into the bank.
"Now if you'll just sign this, Mr. Stewart," said Brookings, "you can have until December first on that stuff."
"You mean the note!" the old man exclaimed, afraid to believe that he had heard aright.
"Yes, the note that is about to be foreclosed. You've been granted an extension." Jack Stewart was too overcome to attempt to comment. The realization that he was to be allowed to go on and not be sold out or be forced to dispose of his little stock at such a critical time, was too much for words. He caught up the pen, steadied his nerves, and wrote his name, not observing that the banker held a blotter over the lower line of the note. Jean Baptiste had cautioned him to do this. In view of the circumstances he had not wished Stewart or Agnes to know that he had gone on the note.
Jack Stewart hurried home in a fever of excitement. He could not get there fast enough. He thought of Agnes, he did not wish her to have a minute more grief than what she had endured. He reached home and stumbled into the house, and to Agnes he said:
"Oh, girl, girl, girl! They have extended the note! The sheriff is not coming! We are saved, saved, saved!" He was too overcome with emotion and joy then to proceed.He sank into a chair, while Agnes, carried away with excitement over the news, caressed him; said words of love and care until both had been exhausted by their own emotions. When they at last became calm, she turned to her father who now walked the floor in great joy.
"How did they come to extend the note, father?"
"Why—why, dear, that had never occurred to me! I became so excited when they told me that I had been granted an extension, I can only recall that I signed the note and almost ran out of the bank. The man had to call me back to give me my old note and mortgage. I don't know why they granted the extension." He stood holding his chin now and looking down at the floor as if trying to understand after all how it happened. Then his eyes opened suddenly wide. "Why, and, do you know, now, since I come to think of it, they did not take a new mortgage on the stock."
"I don't believe that the administrator had anything to do with it," she said after a time. "I know that man. He would sell his mother out into the streets. Now I wonder who has influenced the bank into giving us this time...."
"Bless me, dear lord. But right now I am too tickled to try to think who. To be saved is enough all at once. Later, I shall try to figure out who has been my benefactor." And with this he left the house and went to walk with his joy in the fields where George was plowing corn, unconscious of the fact that the team he was driving was to have been seized on the morrow and sold for debt.
"Now I wonderwhosaved papa," Agnes said to herself, taking a seat by the window and gazing abstractedly out into the road. She employed her wits to estimate what had brought it about, and as she sat there, Jean Baptiste came driving down the road. He had not been there since breakfast the morning before. He had taken his morning's meal at the restaurant in the town. As he drove down the slope that began above the house wherein she sat, his dark face was lighted with a peaceful smile. He drove leisurely along, concerned with the bright prospects of his four hundred acres of crop. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he passed on by without seeing Agnes at the window; without even looking toward the house.
Upon seeing him Agnes had for the moment forgotten what she was thinking about. But when he had passed by, she was suddenly struck with an inspiration. She jumped quickly to her feet: She raised her hands to her breast and held them there as if to still a great excitement, as she cried:
"Jean! Jean, Jean Baptiste! It was you, you, who did it. It was you who saved my father, saved me; saved us all! Oh, my Jean!"
She was overcome then with a great emotion. She sank slowly upon a chair. And as she did so sobs broke from her lips and she wept long and silently.
BILL PRESCOTT PROPOSES
SUMMERTIME over the prairie country; summertime when the rainfall has been abundant, is a time of happiness to all settlers in a new land. And such a summer it was in the land of our story. God had been unusually kind to the settlers; he had blessed them with abundant moisture; with sunshine, not too warm and not too cold. The railroad was under course of construction and would be completed far enough west for the settlers from the most remote part—from the farthest corner of the reservation to journey with their grain or hogs, chickens or cattle to it and return to home the same day. And now the fields which had been seeded to winter wheat had turned to gold. Only a few thousand acres had been sowed over the county, and of this amount one hundred thirty acres grew on the homestead of Jean Baptiste. The season for its growth had been ideal, and the prospects for a bumper yield was the best. Ripe now, and ready to cut, the air was filled with its aroma.
He had brought a new self-binder from Gregory which now stood in the yard ready for action, its various colors green, red, blue and white, resplendent in the sunlight.
So now we see Jean Baptiste the cheerful, Jean Baptiste the hopeful, with hopes in a measure about realized; Jean Baptiste the Ethiopian in a country where he alone was black. He whistles at times, he sings, he is merry, cheery and gay.
But while Jean Baptiste was happy, cheerful and gay, there was in him what has been, what always will be that which makes us appreciate the courage that is in some men.
Bill Prescott, from the first day he had seen Agnes, had considered a match between her and himself a suggestive proposition. Bill Prescott might be referred to as a "feature." He was not so fortunate as to have been born handsome, and could not be called attractive. He had not, moreover, improved the situation by cultivation of wit, of art or pride. The West had meant no more to him than had the East, the South—or the West Indies, for that matter. Because Bill had no homestead, no deeded land, and had not tried to get any. His wealth consisted of a few horses, among which, an old, worn out, bought-on-credit-stallion, was his pride.
Of this stallion Bill talked. He told of his pedigree, tracing him back almost to the Ark. He was fond of tobacco, was Bill Prescott; he chewed, apparently, all the time. He had lost his front teeth; wore his thin hair long, and upon his small head a hat, oiled to the point where its age was a matter for conjecture. He had apparently appreciated that the wind blew outrageously over those parts at times, and, therefore, had hung a leather string to his hat which he pulled down over the back of his head to hold his hat in place. This succeeded in frumpling the long, thin hair and kept it in a dishevelled condition.
Now Bill had been a frequent caller at the Stewarts' home since they had come West. He did not always take the trouble to remove his hat when inside. That he was fond of Agnes was apparent, and smiled always upon seeing her, and at such times showed where his front teeth had been but where tobacco more frequently now was, with lazy delight.
He called this day wearing a clean, patched jumper over his cotton shirt. When once inside, sprawling his legs before him, and while Jack Stewart worked in the sun outside, repairing harness, he said to Agnes:
"Well, old girl, how'd you like to marry?" Agnes changed color a few times before she could decide whether to answer or not. In the meantime, patient and in no hurry, Bill grinned with pleasure at the ease with which he had started; showed tobacco where his teeth had been, and spat a pound of juice, with plenty of drippings trailing out the window by which she sat. It made considerable argument getting through the screen, but succeeded finally—most of it, the remainder, clung, hesitated, wavered, and finally giving up, dripped slowly to the ledge below.
"Dog-gone, myself," said Bill, getting up heavily from his chair, and going to the window and thumping it lightly, whereupon the hesitant amber, dashed in many directions about. Agnes had observed it all with calm disgust. Bill, however, not the least perturbed over his apparent breach of impropriety, became reseated, and resumed:
"Well?"
She turned her eyes slowly toward him, surveyed him coldly, and continued at her sewing.
Bill muttered something.
She regarded him again with cold disdain.
"Haw, haw!" he laughed loudly. "You don't pretend t' hear me, haw! haw! Then I guess you're stuck on that nigger you got a hangin' round here."
"Will you go!" she cried, as she quickly jumped to her feet and swung open the door. She controlled herself with considerable effort.
"Oh, ho! So that's the way you treat a white man—and honor a d—n nigger!" And with that he dashed outand passed to where the senior worked away over his harness. Jack Stewart saw and heard Bill approaching without looking up. He greeted:
"Ah-ha, William. And how are you today?"
Bill was struck with a sudden inspiration. In his way he really liked Agnes, and it was all settled in his mind to wed her. He realized now that he had rather bungled matters, and thereupon decided to exercise a little more discretion. So, choking down the anger that was in him, and swallowing a bit of tobacco juice at the same time, he said to Stewart:
"Good morning! Ah, by the way, Jack, I'd like to marry Agnes." So saying, he was pleased with himself again, and spat tobacco juice more easily in the next squirt. Jack continued working at his harness. For the moment he did not appear to comprehend, but presently he raised his eyes with the old style glasses before them, and surveyed Bill slowly.
"You want to do what?" he said, uncomprehendingly.
"To marry Agnes," Bill repeated calmly. He paused, looked away, sucked his soft mouth clean of amber and spat it tricklingly at Jack's feet, and looked up and at Jack with a wondrous smile.
Now Jack Stewart was possessed with certain virtues. He did not smoke, chew, drink, swear nor shave. He was rather put out, but with considerable effort at self control he managed to say:
"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, why don't you take it up with the girl?" Bill hesitated at this point, sucked his mouth clear again of tobacco juice, cleared his throat, spat the juice, and, after a hasty glance toward the house, decided not to mention that he had spoken with Agnes. He replied:
"Well, I thought it best to speak to you, and if it's all right with you, it ought to be all right with the gal."
Jack Stewart drew up, and then tried to relax. He did not think so much of Bill; but he did think the world of Agnes and wanted her respected by everybody. Moreover, he did not like to hear her "galled." He turned to William; he regarded him keenly, and then in a voice and words that were English, but accent that was very much Scotch, the which we will not attempt to characterize, he said:
"You're a joke. Just a great, big joke." He paused briefly, and then continued: "I'd like to be patient with you; but honestly, with you it wouldn't pay. You are not worth it. And in so far as my girl—any girl is concerned, I cannot imagine how you could even expect them to be interested." He paused and looked away, too full up to go ahead. In the meantime he heard Bill:
"Is that so!"
"Isitso!" cried Stewart with a touch of vehemence. "Gad! See yourself. See how you go! Don't you observe what's around you close enough to see that girls want some sedateness; they admire in some measure cleverness, clothes, and—well, manhood!"
"So I don't guess I have it?" retorted William, sneeringly.
"Oh, you bore me!" Jack returned disgustingly. He bent to his work in an attempt to forget it. And then he again heard from Bill:
"So that's the way yu' got it figgered out, eh!" He drew his mouth tight shut. He gave another soft suck that drew his skin close to his gums, and with his tongue, he cleared his mouth and spat tobacco, juice and all in a soft lump at Stewart's feet and said in unconcealed anger: "So that's the way you got me figgered out! And I want to say, now,that I don't think I want yer gal, anyhow. I'm a white man, I am. And what white man would want a gal that a nigger is allowed to hang aroun' and court!"
Jack Stewart was struck below the belt. He was fouled, and for a time everything went dark around him, he was so angry. He did not know that Jean Baptiste had saved him from losing his stock or being forced to sell them; he had never connected Baptiste and Agnes as being other than friends, and friends they had a right to be. But Jack Stewartdidregard Jean Baptiste as a gentleman and gentlemen he respected. His knockout therefore was brief. He soon recovered. He could not speak, he could not even stammer; but with a sudden twitch of the tug his hands held, he came away around with it, and the heavy leather took Bill fairly in the mouth, in the middle of the mouth. And then Jack got his voice, and ready for another swing; but not before Bill found something, too. It was his feet.
"You stinkin', low down, pup!" cried Stewart, falling over from the force of the swing he had missed. "You trash of the sand hills! You tobacco chewin', ragga-muffin!" Getting his balance, and turning after William madly, he resumed: "You ornery, nasty, filthy, houn'! If I get my han's on you, I swear t' God I'll kill you."
But Bill Prescott now held the advantage. He was younger, and more fleet of foot; so therefore out ran Jack, who was left before he reached the gate, far to the rear, and Bill gained his side of the wide road with a safe lead. Jack finally came to a stop before getting off the premises with his blood boiling with such heat that he drew his hat off and beat himself with it. In the meantime, Agnes, who had witnessed the controversy from the gate, ventured out to where her father stood and taking him gently by the arm, she led him inside.
"My blood's up, my blood's up!" Jack kept crying and repeating. "That stinkin', triflin' peace a nothin', has been gittin' smart. Tryin' to low rate me; tryin' to low rate my girl. Insultin' Jean Baptiste! Dang him, dang him!"
"Father, father!" cried Agnes soothingly.
"Did you hear'm! Did you hear'm! Why, the low down, good for nothin', I'm a good mind to go cross the road and skin him alive!"
"Father, father!" begged Agnes.
"Did you hear what he said," insisted the infuriated senior.
"Yes, father," she confessed. "I heard him."
"You did! 'N that's worse!" Whereupon he tore loose and threw up his arms in an angered gesture.
"Now, papa," Agnes argued kindly. "I heard him, and what he said to you. He was in here and insul—spoke to me before he went out there.... I understand all about it.... So you must simply be calm—and forget it. That's all...."
"I don't care so much for myself, but that he should speak about you and Baptiste! I just wish Baptiste could have heard him and just beat the gosh danged manure right out of him."
"Please be quiet, papa. Forget Bill Prescott and what he has tried to insinuate.... We understandhimand what heis, and we understand Mr. Baptiste—and whathe is, so let us just think of other things."
"Yes, Aggie, I suppose you're right. You always seem to be right. And I will try to forget it; but I'll say this much: If that ornery, lazy cuss ever crosses this road to my place again I'll thresh him within an inch of his life!"
"You've agreed to forget it, father...."
"I agree again; but it's outrageous that he should say what he did about Jean Baptiste, now isn't it?"
"It is, father," she admitted with downcast eyes.
"Of course it is. Never was there more of a gentleman in the world than Jean Baptiste."
"Mr. Baptiste is a real gentleman," acknowledged Agnes again.
"There never was, and he knows it, the pup!"
Agnes was strangely silent, which Jack, in his excitement overlooked.
"And even if he should like my girl—"
"Father!"
"Well?"
"Oh, please hush!"
"I will, Aggie," he said slowly. He bent forward presently, folded her close, kissed her, and then placing his hat on his head, went back to his work....
HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT
HARVEST time, harvest time! When the harvest time is, all worries have passed. When the harvest time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears are no more. When the golden grain falls upon the canvas; when the meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the land sing the song of harvest time, the farmer is happy, is gay, and confident.
And harvest time was on in the country of our story.
Jean Baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn, jumped from the seat, and before he started to unhitch, he gazed out over a stretch of land which two years before, had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but was now a world of shocked grain. Thousands upon thousands of shocks stood over the field like a great army in the distance. His crop was good—the best. And no crops are like the crop on new land. Never, since the beginning of time had that soil tasted tamed plant life. It had seemed to appreciate the change, and the countless shocks before him were evidence to the fact.
From where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed across country toward the southeast where lay his other land. Only a part of which he could see. As it rose in the distance he could see the white topped oats; and just beyond he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed blossoms. He sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink, and turned them toward the pasture. He was not tired;but he went to the side of the house which the sun did not strike, and sat him down. At the furthest side of the field he observed Bill and George as they shocked away to finish. He was at peace again, as he always was, and thereupon fell into deep thought.
"My crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels to the acre," he whispered to himself. "And one hundred and thirty acres should then yield almost four thousand bushels. I should receive at least eighty cents the bushel, and that would approximate about three thousand dollars, with seed left to sow the land again." He paused in his meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean to him. He could pay the entire amount on the land he had purchased, and perhaps a thousand or two more from the flax crop. That would leave him owing but four hundred dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he felt he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have 520 acres clear!
He could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain over his prospects. He was now just twenty-three and appreciated that most of his life was yet before him. With, at the most, two or three more seasons like the present one, he could own the coveted thousand acres and the example would be completed.
That was the goal toward which he was working. If he or any other man of the black race could acquire one thousand acres of such land it would stand out with more credit to the Negro race than all the protestations of a world of agitators in so far as the individual was concerned.
"It is things accomplished," he often said to himself.
"It is what is actually accomplished that will get notice—and credit! Damn excuses! The best an excuse can secure is dismissal, and positively that is no asset." He wouldthen invariably think deeply into the conditions of his race, the race who protested loudly that they were being held down. Truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to solve with prolific thinkings. He compared them with the Jew—went away back to thousands of years before. Out of the past he could not solve it either. All had begun together. The Jew was hated, but was a merchant enjoying a large portion of the world commerce and success. The Negro was disliked because of his black skin—and sometimes seemingly for daring to be human.
At such times he would live over again the life that had been his before coming West. He thought of the multitudes in the employment of a great corporation who monopolized the sleeping car trade. Indeed this company after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men. Not so much in what was collected in tips and in other devious ways, nor from the small salary, but from the great opportunity of observation that that particular form of travel afforded.
But so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves thereby. He continued to think along these lines until his thoughts came back to a point where in the past they were wont to come and stop. He could not in that moment understand why they had not been coming back to that selfsame point in recent months.... Since one cold day during the first month of that year.... He gave a start when he realized why, then sighed. It seemed too much for his thoughts just then. He regarded Bill and George at their task of trying to finish their work. Upon hearing a sound, he turned. Behind him stood Agnes.
"My, how you frightened me!" he cried.
She held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him and her brothers. This she had brought every day, but hehad been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had quite forgotten that she was coming on this day as well. As she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter than she really was, also more slender, and appeared withal more girlish than usual. Her eyes twinkled and her heavy hair drawn together at the back of her head, hung over her shoulders. Her sunkist skin was a bit tanned; her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown and were very round. And as Jean Baptiste regarded her there in the bright golden sunlight she appeared to him like the Virgin Mary.
"You are tired," he cried, and pointed to a crude bench that reposed against the sod house, which he had just left in his prolific thinking of a moment before.
"Sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded. She obeyed him modestly, with a smile still upon her pleasant face.
"I judge that Bill and George will finish in a few minutes, so I'll wait, that we may all dine together. You'll be so kind as to wait until then, will you not?" he asked graciously, and bowed.
"Until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly.
"Thanks!" he laughed, good humoredly. Suddenly she cried:
"Oh, isn't it beautiful!" And swept her hands toward the field of shocked wheat. He had been looking away, but as she spoke he turned and smiled with satisfaction.
"It is."
"Just lovely," she cried, her eyes sparkling.
"And all safe, that's the best part about it," he said.
"Grand. I'm so glad you have saved it," she said with feeling.
"Thank you."
"You have earned it."
"I hope so. Still I thank you."
"It will bring you lots of money."
"I am hoping it will."
"Oh, it will."
"I was thinking of it before you came up."
"I knew it."
"You knew it!"
"I saw you from a distance."
"Oh...."
"And I knew you were thinking."
"Oh, come now."
"Why shouldn't I? You're always thinking. The only time when you are not is when you are sleeping."
"You can say such wonderful things," he said, standing before her, the sun shining on his tanned features.
"Won't—ah—won't you be seated?" she invited. He colored unseen. She made room for him and he hesitatingly took a seat, at a conventional distance, on the bench beside her.
"Your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably.
"I'm going over to look at them this afternoon."
"You should."
"Where is your father today?"
"Gone to town."
"Wish I'd known he was going; I'd had him bring out some twine for me. I think the oats will be ready to cut over on the other place right away, and I don't want to miss any time."
"No, indeed. A hail storm might come up." He glanced at her quickly. She was gazing across the fieldto where her halfwitted brothers worked, while he was thinking how thoughtful she was. Presently he heard her again.
"Why, if it is urgent—you are out, I—I could go to town and get the twine for you." She was looking at him now and he was confused. Her offer was so like her, so natural. Why was it that they understood each other so well?
"Oh, why, Agnes," he stammered, "that would be asking too much of you!"
"Why so? I shall be glad—glad to oblige you in any way. And it is not too much if one takes into consideration what you have done for—I'll be glad to go...."
"Done for what?" he said, catching up where she had broken off, and eyeing her inquiringly.
She was confused and the same showed in her face. She blushed. She had not meant to say what she did. But he was regarding her curiously. He hadn't thought about the note. She turned then and regarded him out of tender eyes. She played with the bonnet she held in her lap. She looked away and then back up into his face, and her eyes were more tender still. In her expression there was almost an appeal.
"What did you mean by what you started to say, Agnes," he repeated, evenly, but kindly.
"I—I—mean what you did for papa. What—you—you did about that—that—note." It was out at last and she lowered her eyes and struggled to hold back the tears with great effort.
"Oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. "That was nothing." And he laughed again as if to dismiss it.
"But itwassomething," she cried, protestingly. "Itwassomething. It waseverythingto us." She ended withgreat emotion apparent in her shaking voice. He shifted. It was awkward, and he was a trifle confused.
"Please don't think of it, Agnes."
"But how can I keep from thinking of it when I know that had it not been your graciousness; your wonderful thoughtfulness, your great kindness, we would have been sold out—bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me!" She covered her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now raining down her face and dropping upon her lap.
"Oh, Agnes," he cried. "I wish you wouldn't do that! Please don't. It hurts me. Besides, how did you know it? I told Brookings that your father was not to know it. I did not want it known." He paused and his voice shook slightly. They had drawn closer and now she reached out and placed her small hand upon his arm.
"Brookings didn't tell. He didn't tell papa; but I knew." She was looking down at the earth.
"I don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly.
"But didn't you think, Jean, that I understood! I understood the very day—a few minutes after papa returned home, brought the old note and told me about the extension." She paused and looked thoughtfully away across the field. "I understood when you drove by a few minutes later. You had forgotten about it, I could see, and your mind was on other things; but the moment you came into my sight, and I looked out upon you from the window, I knew you had saved us."
Her hand still rested lightly upon his arm. She was not aware of it, but deeply concerned with what she was saying. Presently, when he did not speak, she went on. "I understood and knew that you had forgotten it—that you were too much of a man to let us know what you had done. I can't forget it! I have wanted to tell you howI felt—I felt that I owed it to you to tell you, but I couldn't before."
"Please let's forget it, Agnes," she heard him whisper.
"I can keep from speaking of it, but forget it—never! It was so much like you, like the man that's in you!" and the tears fell again.
"Agnes, Agnes, if you don't hush, almost I will forget myself...."
"I had to tell you, Ihadto!" she sobbed.
"But it is only a small return for what you did for me. Do you realize, Agnes, had it not been for you, I—I—would not be sitting here now? Oh, think of that and then you will see how little I have done—how very little I can ever do to repay!" His voice was brave, albeit emotional. He leaned toward her, and the passion was in his face. She grasped his arm tighter as she looked up again into his face out of her tear bedimmed eyes and cried brokenly:
"But Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for you I would have done for anybody. It was merely an act of providence; but yours—oh, Jean,can't you understand!" He was silent.
"Yours was the act of kindness," she went on again, "the act of a man; and you would have kept it secret; because you would never have had it known, because you would not have us feel under obligation to you. Oh, that is what makes me—oh, it makes me cry when I think of it." The tears flowed freely while her slender shoulders shook with emotion.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow."BUT, JEAN, THE CASES ARE NOT PARALLEL. WHAT I DID FOR YOU I WOULD HAVE DONE FOR ANY ONE; BUT YOURS—OH, JEAN,CAN'TYOU UNDERSTAND!"
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"BUT, JEAN, THE CASES ARE NOT PARALLEL. WHAT I DID FOR YOU I WOULD HAVE DONE FOR ANY ONE; BUT YOURS—OH, JEAN,CAN'TYOU UNDERSTAND!"
And when she had concluded, the man beside her had forgottenthe custom of the country, and its lawhad passed beyond him. He was as a man toward the maid now. Beside him wept the one he had loved as a dream girl. Behind him was the house with the bed she had laidhim upon when she saved his life. And when he had awakened, before being conscious of where he was or what had happened to him, he had looked into her eyes and had seen therein his dream girl. She was his by the right of God; he forgot now that she was white while he was black. He only remembered that she was his, and he loved her.
His voice was husky when he answered:
"Agnes, oh, Agnes, I begged you not to. I almost beseeched you, because—oh, don't you understand what is in me, that I am as all men, weak? To have seen you that night—the night I can never forget, the night when you stood over me and I came back to life and saw you. You didn't know then and understand that I had dreamed of you these two years since I had come here: that out of my vision I had seen you, had talked with you, oh, Agnes!" She straightened perceptibly; she looked up at him with that peculiarity in her eyes that even she had never come to understand. They became oblivious to all that was about them, and had unconsciously drawn closer together now and regarded each other as if in some enchanted garden. She sang to him then the music that was in her, and the words were:
"Jean, oh, Jean Baptiste, you have spoken and now at lastIunderstand. And do you know that before I left back there from where I came, Isawyou: I dreamed of you and that I would know you, and then I came and so strangely met and have known you now for the man you are, oh, Jean!"
Gradually as the composure that had been theirs passed momentarily into oblivion, and the harvest birds twittered gayly about them, his man's arm went out, and into the embrace her slender body found its way. His lips found hers, and all else was forgotten.
EPOCH THE SECOND
REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES
IT WAS winter, and the white snow lay everywhere; icicles hung from the eaves. All work on the farms was completed. People were journeying to a town half way between Bonesteel and Gregory to take the train for their former homes; others to spend it with their relatives, and Jean Baptiste was taking it for Chicago and New York where he went as a rule at the end of each year.
He was going with an air of satisfaction apparently; for, in truth, he had everything to make him feel so—that is,almosteverything. He had succeeded in the West. The country had experienced a most profitable season, and the crop he reaped and sold had made him in round numbers the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. He had paid for the two hundred acres of land he had bargained for; he had seeded more land in the autumn just passed to winter wheat which had gone into the winter in the best of shape; his health was the best. For what more could he have wished?
And yet no man was more worried than he when he stepped from the stage onto the platform of the station where he was to entrain for the East.... It is barely possible that any man could have been more sad.... To explain this we are compelled to go back a few months; backto the harvest time; to his homestead and where he sat with some one near, very near, and what followed.
"I couldn't help it—I loved you; love you—have loved you always!" he passionately told her.
For answer she had yielded again her lips, and all the love of her warm young heart went out to him.
"I don't understand you always, dear," he whispered. "Sometimes there is something about you that puzzles me. I think it's in your eyes; but Idounderstand that whatever it is it is something good—it couldn't be otherwise, could it?"
"No, Jean," she faltered.
"And did you wonder at my calling your name that night?"
"I have never understood that fully until now," she replied.
"You came in a vision, and it must have been divine, two years ago gone now," she heard him; "and ever since your face, dear, has been before me. I have loved it, and, of course, I knew that I would surely love you when you came."
"Isn't it strange," she whispered.
"But beautiful."
"So beautiful."
"Was it providence, or was it God that brought you that night and saved me from the slow death that was coming over me, Agnes?"
"Please, Jean, don't! Don't speak again of that awful night! Surely it must have been some divine providence that brought me to this place; but I can never recall it without a tremor. To think that you would have died out there! Please, never tell me of it again, dear." She trembled and nestled closer to him, while her little heartbeat a tattoo against her ribs. They looked up then, as across the field her halfwitted brothers were approaching. It was only then that they seemed to realize what had transpired and upon realization they silently disembraced. What had passed was the most natural thing in the world, true; and to them it had come because it was in them to assert themselves, but now before him rose the Custom of the Country, and its law. So vital is this Custom; so much is it a part of the body politic that certain states have went on record against it. Not because any bad, or good, any wealth or poverty was involved. It had been because of sentiment, the sentiment of the stronger faction....
So it ruled.
In the lives of the two in our story, no thought but to live according to God's law, and the law of the land, had ever entered their minds, but now they had while laboring under the stress of the pent-up excitement and emotion overruled and forgot the law two races are wont to observe and had given vent and words to the feeling which was in them.... They stood conventionally apart now, each absorbed in the calm realization of their positions in our great American society. They were obviously disturbed; but that which had drawn them to the position they had occupied and declared, still remained, and that was love.
So time had gone on as time will; never stopping for anything, never hesitating, never delaying. So the day went, and the week and the month, and the month after that and the month after that, until in time the holidays were near, and Jean Baptiste was going away, away to forget that which was more to him than all the world—the love of Agnes Stewart.
He had considered it—he had considered it before hecaught the one he loved into his arms and said the truth that was in him.... But there was another side to it that will have much space in our story.
Down the line a few stations from where he now was, there lived an example. A man had come years ago into the country, there, a strong, powerfully built man. He was healthy, he was courageous and he was dark, because forsooth, the man was a Negro. And so it had been with time this man's heart went out to one near by, a white. Because of his race it was with him as with Jean Baptiste. Near him there had been none of his kind. So unto himself he had taken a white wife. He had loved her and she had loved him; and because it was so, she had given to him children. And when the children had come she died. And after she had died and some years had passed, he took unto himself another wife of the same blood, and to that union there had come other children.
So when years had passed, and these selfsame children had reached their majority, they too, took unto themselves wives, and the wives were of the Caucasian blood. But when this dark man had settled in the land below, which, at that time, had been a new country, he decided to claim himself as otherwise than he was. He said and said again, that he was of Mexican descent, mongrel, forsooth; but there was noCustom Of The Countrywith regard to the Mexican, mongrel though he be. But the people and the neighbors all knew that he lied and that he was Ethiopian, the which looked out through his eyes. But even to merely claim being something else was a sort of compromise.
So his family had grown to men and women, and they in turn brought more children into the world. And all claimed allegiance to a race other than the one to which they belonged.
Once lived a man who was acknowledged as great and much that goes with greatness was given unto him by the public. A Negro he was, but as a climax in his great life, he had married a wife of that race that is superior in life, wealth and achievements to his own, the Caucasian. So it had gone.
The first named, Jean Baptiste never felt he could be quite like. Even if he should disregardThe Custom Of The Country, and its law, and marry Agnes, he did not feel he would ever attempt that. But to marry out of the race to which he belonged, especially into the race in which she belonged, would be the most unpopular thing he could do. He had set himself in this new land to succeed; he had worked and slaved to that end. He liked his people; he wanted to help them. Examples they needed, and such he was glad he had become; but if he married now the one he loved, the example was lost; he would be condemned, he would be despised by the race that was his. Moreover, last but not least, he would perhaps, by such a union bring into her life much unhappiness, and he loved her too well for that.
Jean Baptiste had decided. He loved Agnes, and had every reason to; but he forswore. He would change it. He would go back from where he had come. He would be a man as befitted him to be. He would find a girl; he would marry in his race. They had education; they were refined—well, he would marry one of them anyhow!
So Jean Baptiste was going. He would forget Agnes. He would court one in his own race. So to Chicago he now sped.
He had lived in the windy city before going West, and was very familiar with that section of the city on the south side that is the center of the Negro life of that greatmetropolis. Accordingly, he approached a station in the loop district, entered one of the yellow cars and took a seat. He looked below at the hurly-burly of life and action, and then his eyes took survey of the car. It was empty, all save himself and another, and that other was a girl, a girl of his race! The first he had seen since last he was in the city. How little did she know as she sat across the aisle from him, that she was the first of his race his eyes had looked upon for the past twelve months. He regarded her curiously. She was of that cross bred type that are so numerous, full bloods seemingly to have become rare about those parts. She was of a light brown complexion, almost a mulatto. She seemed about twenty-two years of age. Of the curious eyes upon her she seemed entirely unaware, finally leaving the train at a station that he was familiar with and disappeared.
At Thirty-first Street he left the train, fell in with the scattered crowd below and the dash of the city life was his again in a twinkling. He found his way to State Street, the great thoroughfare of his people. The novelty in viewing those of his clan now had left him, for they were all about. Even had he been blind he could have known he was among them, for was not there the usual noise; the old laugh, and all that went with it?
He hurried across and passed down Thirty-first to Dearborn Street, Darktown proper; but even when he had reached Federal, then called Armour, he had seen nothing but his race. He had friends—at least acquaintances, so to where they lived he walked briskly.
"And if it isn't Jean Baptiste, so 'elp me Jesus," cried the woman, as she opened the door in response to his knock, and without further ceremony encircled his neck with her arms, and kissed his lips once and twice. "You old dear!"she exclaimed with him inside, holding him at arms' length and regarding him fondly. "How are you, anyhow?"
"Oh, fine," he replied, regarding her pleasantly.
"You are certainly looking good," she said, looking up into his face with fun in her eyes. "Sit down, sit down and make yourself at home," she invited, drawing up a chair.
"Well, how's Chicago?" he inquired irrelevantly.
"Same old burg," she replied, drawing a chair up close.
"And how's hubby?"
"Fine!"
"And the rest of the family?"
"The same. Pearl, too."
"Oh, Pearl.... How is Pearl?"
"Still single...."
"Thought she was engaged to be married when I was here last year?"
"Oh, that fellow was no good!"
"What was the matter?"
"What's the matter with lots of these nigga' men 'round Chicago? They can't keep a wife a posing on State Street."
"Humph!"
"It's the truth!"
"And how about the women? They seem to be fond of passing along to be posed at...."
"Oh, you're mean," she pouted. Then: "Are you married yet?"
"Oh, lordy! How could I get married? Not thirty minutes ago I saw the first colored girl I have seen in a year!"
"Oh, you're a liar!"
"It's the truth!"
"Is it so, Jean? Have you really not seen a colored girl in a whole year?"
"I have never lied to you, have I?"
"Well, no. Of course you haven't; but I don't know what I would do under such circumstances. Not seeing nigga's for a year."
"But I've seen enough already to make up."
She laughed. "Lordy, me. Did you ever see so many 'shines' as there are on State Street!" She paused and her face became a little serious for a moment. "By the way, Jean, why don't you marry my sister?"
"You're shameful! Your sister wouldn't have me. I'm a farmer."
"Oh, yes she would. Pearl's getting tired of getting engaged to these Negroes around Chicago. She likes you, anyhow."
"Tut, tut," he laughed depreciatingly. "Pearl would run me ragged out there on that farm!" She laughed too.
"No, she wouldn't, really. Pearl is good looking and is tired of working."
"She's good looking, all right, and perhaps tired of working; but she wouldn't do out there on the farm."
"Oh, you won't do. I'll bet you are married already."
"Oh, Mrs. White!"
"But you're engaged?"
"Nope!"
"Jean. I'll bet you'll marry a white girl out there and have nothing more to do with nigga's."
"Now you're worse."
"And when you marry a white woman, I want to be the first one to shoot you—in the leg."
He laughed long and uproariously.
"You can laf all you want; but you ain't goin' through life lovin' nobody. You gotta girl somewhere; but do what you please so long as it don't come to that."
"Come to what?"
"Marrying a white woman."
"Wouldn't that be all right?"
She looked up at him with a glare. He smiled amusedly. "Don't you laf here on a subject like that! Lord! I think lots of you, but if I should hear that you had married a white woman, man, I'd steal money enough to come there and kill you dead!"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Why would I want to do that?Humph! What you want to ask me such a question for? The idea!"
"But you haven't answered my question?"
She glared at him again, all the humor gone out of her face. Presently, biting at the thread in some sewing she was doing, she said: "In the first place, white people and Negroes have no business marrying each other. In the second place, a nigga' only gets a po' white woman. And in the third place, white people and nigga's don't mix well when it comes to society. Now, supposin' you married a white woman and brought her here to Chicago, who would you associate with? We nigga's 's sho goin' to pass 'er up. And the white folks—you better not look their way!"
He was silent.
"Ain't I done outlined it right?"
"You've revealed some very delicate points with regard to the matter," he acknowledged.
"Of course I have, and you can't get away from it. But that ain't all. Now, to be frank with yu'. I wouldn't ceh so much about some triflin' no 'count nigga' marrying some old white woman; but that ain't the kind no white woman wants when she stoops so low as to marry a nigga'. Uh, naw! Naw indeedy! She don't fool with nothin' like that! She leaves that kind for some poor colored womanto break her heart and get her head broken over. She marries somebody like you with plenty of money and sense with it, see!"
He laughed amusedly.
"No laffin' in it. You know I'm tellin' the truth. So take warning! Don't marry no white woman up there and come trottin' down here expectin' me to give you blessin'. Because if you do, and just as sure as my name is Ida White, I'm going to do something to you!"
"But a white woman might help a fellow to get up in the world," he argued.
"Yes, I'll admit that, too. But ouh burden is ouh burden, and we've got to bear it. And, besides, you c'n get a girl that'll help you when you really want a wife. That ain't no argument. Of course I'd like to see Pearl married. But you ain't going to fool with her, and I know it. Pearl thinks she would like it better if she could marry somebody from out of Chicago; but they'd all be the same after a month or so with her."
"Well," said he, "I'd better get over to the Keystone. You've interested me today. I've learned something regarding the amalgamation of races...."
"I hope you have, if you had it in your mind. Anything else might be forgiven, but marrying a white woman—never!"
They parted then. She to her sewing, and Jean Baptiste to his thoughts....
WHICH?
JEAN BAPTISTE returned to the West after two months' travel through the East, and the spring following, sowed a large crop of small grain and reaped a bountiful yield that fall. About this time the county just west of where he lived was opened to settlement, and a still larger crowd than had registered for the land in the county he lived came hither and sought a quarter section.
The opening passed to the day of the drawing, and when all the lucky numbers had secured their filings, contracts for the purchases of relinquishments began. By this time the lands had reached great values, and that which he had purchased a short time before for twenty dollars the acre, had by this time reached the value of fifty dollars the acre. And now he had an opportunity of increasing his possessions to the number coveted, one thousand acres.
He had paid a visit to his parents that winter, and found his sisters, who were mere children when he had left home, grown to womanhood, and old enough to take claims. So with them he had discussed the matter. Inspired by his great success, they were all heart and soul to follow his bidding; so thereupon it was agreed that he would try to secure three relinquishments on good quarters, and upon one or more of these they would make filings.
His grandmother, who had raised a family in the days ofslavery agreed and was anxious to file on one; one sister on another, and the third place,—was to be his bride's.
By doing this, he could have her use her homestead right, providing she filed on the claim before marrying him. So it was planned. But Jean Baptiste knew no girl that he could ask to become his wife, therefore this was yet to be. When he had given up his real love to be loyal to his race, he had determined on one thing: that marriage was a business, even if it was supposed to be inspired by love. But when Agnes was left out, he loved no one. Therefore it must be resolved into a business proposition—and the love to come after.
So, resigned to the fact, he set himself to choose a wife.
On his trip East the winter before he met two persons with whom he had since corresponded. One, the first, was a young man not long out of an agricultural college whose father was a great success as a potato grower. He and Jean became intimate friends. It now so happened that the one mentioned had a sister, and through him Jean Baptiste was introduced to her by mail.
Correspondence followed and by this time it had become very agreeable. She proved to be a very logical young woman, and Jean Baptiste was favorably impressed. She was, moreover, industrious, ambitious, and well educated. Her age was about the same as his, so on the surface he thought that they should make a very good match. So be it.
In the meantime, however, he had opened a correspondence with another whom he had met on his trip the winter before where she had been teaching in a coal mining town south of Chicago. The same had developed mutually, and he had found her agreeable and obviously eligible. Her father was a minister, a dispenser of the gospel, and while for reasons we will become acquainted with in due time,he had cultivated small acquaintance with preachers, he took only such slight consideration of the girl's father's profession that he had good cause to recall some time later.
About the time he was deeply engrossed in his correspondence with both the farmer's daughter and the young school teacher, he received a letter from a friend in Chicago introducing him to a lady friend of hers through mail. This one happened to be a maid on the Twentieth Century Limited, running between New York and Chicago. Well, Jean Baptiste was looking for a wife. Sentiment was in order, but it was with him, first of all, a business proposition. So be it. He would give her too a chance.
He was somewhat ashamed of himself when he addressed three letters when perhaps, he should have been addressing but one. It was not fair to either of the three, he guiltily felt; but, business was business with him.
From his friend's sister he received most delightful epistles, not altogether frivolous, with a great amount of common sense between the lines. But what was more to the point, her father was wealthy, and she must have some conception of what was required to accumulate and to hold. He rather liked her, it now seemed.
Now from the preacher's daughter he received also pleasing letters. Encouraging, but not to say unconventionally forward. He appreciated the fact that she was a preacher's child, and naturally expected to conform to a certain custom.
But from New York he received the most encouragement. The position the maid held rather thrilled him. He loved the road—and she wrote such letters! It was plain to be seen here what the answer would be.
Which?
He borrowed ten thousand dollars, giving a mortgageupon his land in security therefor. He purchased relinquishments upon three beautiful quarter sections of land in the county lying just to the west. The same, having to be homesteaded before title was acquired, had all ready been in part arranged for. His grandmother and sister were waiting to file on a place each—the third was for the bride-to-be. There remained a few weeks yet in which to make said selection; but, notwithstanding, all must be ready to make filing not later than the first day of October—and September at last arrived.
He became serious, then uneasy. Which? He wrote all three letters that would give either or all a right to hear the words from him, but did not say sufficient to any to give grounds for a possible breach of promise suit later.
He rather liked the girl whose father had made money. Yes, it so seemed—more than either of the other two. A match with her on the surface seemed more practical. But for some reason she did not reply within the time to the letter he had written her. Oh, if he could only have courted her; could have been in the position to have seen her of a warm night; to have said to her: "——." Poor Jean Baptiste your life might not have later come to what it did....
He waited—but in vain. October was drawing dangerously near when at last he left for somewhere. Indeed he had not a complete idea where, but of one thing he had concluded, when he returned he would bring the bride-to-be.
At Omaha he made up his mind. The girl whose father had made money had had her chance and failed. He regretted it very much, but this was a business proposition, and he had two thousand dollars at stake that he would lose if he failed to get some one to file on that quarter section he had provided, on October first.
He was rather disturbed over the idea. He really would have preferred a little more sentiment—but time had become the expedient. "Of course," he argued, as he sped toward Chicago, "I'll be awfully good to the one I choose, so if it is a little out of the ordinary—why, I'll try to make up for it when she is mine."
With this consolation he arrived in Chicago, wishing that the girl who lived two hundred miles south of Omaha and whose father was well-to-do had replied to his letter. He really had chosen her out of the three. However, he resigned himself to the inevitable—one of the other two.
He left the train and boarded the South Side L. He got off again at Thirty-first Street, and found what he had always found before, State Street and Negroes. He was not interested in either this time. He had sent a telegram to New York from Omaha to the effect that he was headed for Chicago. It was to the maid, for she had drawn second choice. He planned to meet her at the number her dear friend—and the match maker, lived.
So it was to this number he now hurried.
"Oh, Mr. Baptiste," cried this little woman, whose name happened to be Rankin, and she was an old maid. She gave him her little hand, and was "delighted" to see him.
"And you've come! Miss Pitt will be so glad! She has talked of nobody but Mr. Baptiste this summer. Oh, I'm so glad you have come!" and she shook his hand again.
"I sent her a telegram that I was coming, and I trust she will let me know...."
"She is due in tomorrow," cried their little friend, and her voice was like delicate music.
"I expect a telegram," he said evenly. "I am somewhat rushed."
"Indeed! But of course, you are a business man, Mr. Baptiste," chimed Miss Rankin with much admiration in her little voice. "How Miss Pitt will like you!"